


New York City Sacrifice

by sharkyclarky



Series: Once Upon a Time Crossovers [3]
Category: Once Upon a Time (TV), Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Character Death, Episode: s08e22 Clip Show, Episode: s08e23 Sacrifice, F/M, Set in the Supernatural!verse, Young Henry Mills, swanchester - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-13
Updated: 2017-01-13
Packaged: 2018-09-17 08:23:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,646
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9313358
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sharkyclarky/pseuds/sharkyclarky
Summary: Crowley is targeting everyone that the Winchester's have ever saved, and that includes the stubborn blonde Dean had spent the night with five years ago. The same woman who thinks he's long dead. It's nothing short of surprises all round when Sam and Dean head to New York to try and save Emma Swan from Crowley's wrath as the fight for Emma's life - and that of her son's - ensues.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I know I've been on a bit of haitus recently, but I've had the worst writers block!
> 
> And what's the best way to deal with writers block? By writing angsty one-shots of course! apologies for any typos but feel free to point them out to me.
> 
> I hope you enjoy this Swanchester angst and please let me know what you think!

 

"You want to keep those people alive. I want complete and utter surrender. The tablet, the trials – you'll give them up, or we'll keep doing this dance. Your choice, my darlings. New York, the Biltmore Tower, apartment 311, You have 12 hours."

The brother's didn't need telling twice. They were out onto the streets and back on the road within minutes with nothing but a destination in mind. All that was left was to make the eleven hour journey to New York City, and find the apartment with Crowley's next victim ready and waiting like a sitting duck. All they needed now was to know just who it was they needed to save.

"Says here the apartment is rented out to a Miss Emma Swan," Sam read off of his phone, having spent the first three hours of the journey trying to navigate through leases and other county records to find just who the target was. As much as he hated himself for thinking it, Dean was beginning to wish they hadn't saved so many people over their years. Still, it would barely take Crowley a week to have them all snuffed out and the brother's knew it. "I know that name."

"Emma?" Dean interrupted, glancing once away from the road at the small, illuminated screen in Sam's hand. "Are you sure?"

"Say's right here," Sam added, hearing as Dean cursed under his breath. Crowley, it seemed, had figured out how to hit them both where it hurt, first with Sarah, and now with -

"How much time have we got?" Dean asked, his foot already pressing more on the accelerator. He hated the thought of playing a part in Crowley's sick, twisted little game, but this was Emma. Emma had been something else entirely, even if he'd not laid eyes on her in over five years.

"Just over seven hours until Crowley takes her out," Sam was sounding weaker than before, a mixture Dena guess of the trails and their toll, and that of having a bright young woman who had everything to live for drift away in his arms. Dean could hardly imagine the pain of it, and now he knew just who was on the line, he refused to need to do anything more than imagine. "Emma, she was there when I killed Gordon. The bail bondsman,"

"Person," Dean corrected, remembering how Emma had said the same to him, sat shoulder to shoulder in a dingy bar where Dixon had been collecting unsuspecting girls to become his new daughters. Sam gave Dean a look which he deftly ignored, focusing once more on the road. "It's bail bonds person"

"Right, well, doesn't she think you're dead?" Dean didn't answer, he didn't need to. Emma had overheard Sam as he pressed more and more on the issue of the crossroads deal Dean had gotten himself entangled with, he knew that he had been on borrowed time when they met. What she didn't know, however, was that Dean had been dragged from the pit four months later. Not that she dwelled on it too much, he was sure. The night the two of them had shared had been unforgettable, that had been for sure. In fact, Dean ranked it as one of his top five in the grand scheme, both of them having been exhausted and splattered with blood, drinking whisky from the bottle from the hood of the impala. It had been messy, sure, and even a little bit desperate, but forgettable – definitely not. But it was still just a single night.

"Yeah, well if we don't shagass, _she'll_ be dead." In his minds eye he could still see her, blonde curls falling over her red leather clad shoulders, her green eyes challenging but guarded as they met his through the street light lit space of the impala's back seat. No, she was not someone Dean had been able to get over in a hurry, honestly, he'd not even wanted to.

* * *

They'd managed to make it to New York within ten hours, only breaking twenty or so speed limits on their way. Dean pulled up along the curb, the Impala jolting slightly with the impact, but he didn't have the time to dwell on that right now. All that mattered was getting to Emma's apartment and finding that hexbag before Sarah's fate became hers.

"You get the gear, I'll go and explain," Dean didn't wait for any agreement, and Sam didn't need to give any before Dean was rushing into the building, ignoring the doorman's offer to help and heading straight for the stairs. The adrenaline was already coursing through his blood stream at such a rate that the idea of standing in a elevator for any more than two floors made his skin crawl. Instead, he took the steps two at a time, hauling himself up and around the corners almost weightlessly until he finally came to land on the fortieth floor.

Finding the right room had been easy, the large, almost luminescent numbers painted at least a foot tall across the green door being rather hard to miss. The hard part, however, was the prospect of facing Emma again, to not only explain to her that he was indeed back from the dead but that a demon was hellbent on having her killed should he not find a small wrapped bag and save her. He'd rather face the devil again, Dean thought before shaking his head clear. Taking a deep breath, Dean rapped his knuckles harshly against the door three times. Before Dean could figure out just what to say the door sung open, revealing a clearly irritated looking Emma stood in the doorway clad in a plaid shirt and faded jeans, her hair falling over her shoulders as her green eyes widened in both surprise and mild horror. Mockery aside, it looked as though she'd seen a ghost.

"De-Dean?" She blurted, blocking the gap in the door with her slim body, one hand pressed flat against the wood to keep Dean from opening it any further. Had their situation been a little less crucial, Dean would have taken the time to apologise and maybe even feel a little hurt by her obvious lack of trust. As it happened, their situation was nothing if not dire, and he really didn't have time for the chick-flick reunion.

"So, er – I'm alive," Dean said dumbly, gesturing to his still intact body for effect. Emma's eyes followed his movements, looking from his boot clad feet, up his tatty jeans and distressed leather jacket before landing once more on his face.

"No kidding," She breathed out, shaking her head slightly as though to clear the shock from her thoughts before the anger flared up, pinkening her face. "Was that whole year to live thing just crap?" She hissed slightly, lowering her voice to barely above a whisper as she narrowed her nostalgically guarded eyes at him, the same way she had five years ago when Dean had tried to explain the existence of vampires and all manner of beasts that went bump in the night.

"Er, no, but I ain't got time to explain," He said, peering over his shoulder for Sam and catching sight of the time atop the elevator doors. "I need to come in," They had just over an hour until Crowley's spell or Demons attacked. Dean only hoped it would be enough time to save and/ or protect her.

"I don't think that's a good idea," Emma protested nervously, already moving to shut the door on him, but Dean had had an awfully long night and he wasn't in the mood for her stubbornness.

"Emma, listen to me," He pressed, pushing his own hand against the door, his strength no match for her. "You're in danger,"

"Dean, _seriously,"_ She hissed again, but Dean had already had enough of it. With one quick shove the door slipped from Emma's grasp, knocking her back a step and giving him the time to walk inside. Given the time, Dean would have taken a moment to appreciate the home Emma had made for herself, the open kitchen and dining room that led to the living room, three doors leading off into other, presumably, bedrooms. It was a lovely place, with large windows overlooking the streetlit city and potted plants, everything a home should be. Hell, had he not already begun rummaging through her kitchen drawers, he might have noticed the photographs stuck to the fridge besides a clearly child-drawn picture of a firetruck, or maybe even the kids toys in the living room. It wasn't until he heard a small voice call out that Dean even halted his searching at all.

"Mommy?" The voice asked and Dean felt his hands freeze. He didn't turn immediately, the blood already having begun to drain from his face as the shock settled in, forcing his previous adrenaline rush to abate drastically. A child. She had a child.

"Henry, it's late. Go back to bed," He heard Emma urge, but the little boy didn't seem to be having any of it.

"Who that?" He asked, his voice muffled slightly. It was only as Dean peered in trepidation over his shoulder that he saw the small boy with a head of thick brown hair had his thumb in his mouth while he spoke. Just like Sammy used to, he noted in the back of his mind before pushing the thought away. This little boy looked an awful lot like Sammy had and the thought made Dean's insides drop like a stone.

"It's no one, Henry," Emma was assuring, lifting the small boy up and sitting him on her hip. He wasn't old at all, Dean noted, certainly no older than five. The pieces were falling painfully slowly into place like a jigsaw in his mind, slotting together to create one image of one night five years ago.

"How old are you?" Dean felt himself asking, not even noticing as Emma flinched slightly at his words.

"Don't answer him," Emma said hurriedly, already walking to return the small boy to the bedroom he'd wandered out from.

"Hey, how old are you?" He tried again, trying not to linger on Emma's pointed reply.

"Four," The boy ignored his mothers words, even going so far as to proudly hold out his chubby little fingers for Dean to see. "Nearly five," He spoke with the same soft voice all young children did, the kind that made everything he said sound ludicrous despite being entirely coherent.

"Come on, Henry," Emma said again before pushing open the bedroom door and disappearing inside, leaving Dean to fall dumbly against the kitchen counter, his hands coming to rub over his face. She had a son. Emma Swan had a five year old son. Dean was hardly a model student at school, but even he could do the maths with this one, and unlike it had been with Lisa, Dean was sure this time his assumptions were correct.

"Look, I'm sorry you had to-"

"Is he mine?" Dean interrupted, everything else having been put on hold for a moment. He knew it wasn't their priority and it certainly wasn't why he was here in her apartment, but everything else felt as though it had been put on pause, all of it melting away to leave space for her answer.

"Dean, look - "

"Is he mine?" He echoed again, but Emma's demeanour said it all. She visibly sighed, her shoulders sagging beneath a weight Dean couldn't see but could easily image had been sat there for a while.

"Yes," She didn't look at him and Dean was grateful for a moment before he felt his heart squeezing in his chest. It didn't feel real, none of it. Not the trials that were slowly but surely destroying his brother, or even finding the scribe of God, and certainly not rushing into the home of a woman he's not seen in half a decade to find her holed up quite cosily with a son – _his son._ "Dean, you said I was in danger," That snapped him out of it, that was for sure.

Dean's explanation was sloppy at best, and rushed too, their time already dwindling below the hour mark. To her credit, Emma took it in stride, but Dean could see the way her lower lip wobbled slightly and her eyes began to water - but she never let a single tear fall throughout his explanation.

"A demon is going to kill me in fifty-four minutes," Emma muttered, her voice quite as she checked the over clock. She too had fallen against the counter now, her hand pressing against her mouth as she breathed as deeply as her lungs would allow. "And Henry?" Truthfully, Dean didn't know what Crowley's plan of and her certainly didn't know what the man was capable of. Killing children was doubtfully something he had an issue with, after all.

"He's going after everyone we ever saved," Dean skirted around the question, something Emma didn't miss, but that wasn't the main issue. Emma had beent eh one he'd saved all those years ago from a vampire of all things. The entire day felt like a dream now, even Gordon, the psychopath hellbent that Sam was the anti-christ. He tried not to dwell on it too harshly though. If they could just find the hexbag and ward the apartment against demons to be safe, then Henry's fate wasn't going to be an issue. "But we're not going to let anything happen to you,"

Sam chose that moment to step through the already open door, two duffle bags held by his sides. Dean didn't miss how worn his brother looked, but as much as he hated himself for thinking it, that wasn't his main concern at this precise moment. No, for now his concern was the small boy lying blissfully ignorant to the shadows lurking over him in the other room.

"I got everything," Sam said, dropping the bags onto Emma's kitchen table and begin to rifle his way though, passing out guns, salt and even a strangely serrated knife to Dean, inscribed with a language Emma wasn't going to pretend she could translate.

"I told myself that was it," Emma said, taking the offered gun from Sam and testing the weight of it in her hands. "No more monster crap. I just can't get away from it. Tell me you have a plan," teary eyes passed from Dean to Sam and back again, but neither of them looked overly confident. The in Emma's stomach was beginning tog row at a far too steady rate."Tell me there is something you can do," She hadn't meant to cry in front of them, the two almost strangers in her kitchen, but she soon found it wasn't to be helped, nor could it be stopped, two tears have already begun tracking down her cheek at the thought of her son subject to such horror. But the brothers said nothing, no words of comfort, not even a pretty little lie. They just watched her with tired eyes and baggage of their own. When Emma finally spoke again her voice was cracked, full of fear and regret. The tears had stopped falling, but they were still their, stinging her eyes, ready to topple from the slightest nudge. "I can't leave him. He can't grow up like I did," Dean's arms came around her shoulders and she allowed herself – however begrudgingly - to be pulled against him, her hands knotting in his undershirt as she watched Sam's confused face. There was a realisation in the back of Emma's mind. If she died tonight, not only would Henry grow up as she did, but perhaps even as Dean did, a witness to the monsters in the dark, forever looking over his shoulder and growing up well before his time. The thought made her shiver and Dean's grip tighened slightly in response. Emma wanted nothing more than to pull away, to wipe her eyes and stand tall like the fighter she was, but the fear was overcoming the fight enough that she stayed put where she was in Dean's arms.

It wasn't all that comforting, the embrace. Dean's muscles were taut, like a puma ready to pounce into action and his breath was loud against her ear, but right now she was willing to take what she could get. Sam had begun surveying her apartment, eyes trailing up the walls and over the carpets, from the television to the toy strewn rug, up to the page littered coffee table covered in child's drawings before finally making it back to Emma's face, his lips set in a thin, grim line. It didn't take long for Emma to realise it wasn't her life that Sam was fearing for, at least, not as much.

"Emma, we are going to do everything we can to save you," Sam assured, his eyes unwavering as he looked at Emma over his brother's shoulder. Numbly, she felt her self nodding before she pulled away from Dean entirely, wiping her eyes with the sleeve of her shirt as thought she could just as simply wipe away the damage.

"What can I do?" She asked, steeling her jaw and rolling her shoulders back, locking away her fear and sorrow for the moment. She was every bit the born fighter Dean remembered her to be, even without the blood splattering her skin and clothes or even the machete in her hands. Emma was a touch nut to crack, Dean knew that, a lifetime of loneliness and abandonment taking it's toll. It was one of the few thing they had in common. Now, they had Henry as well.

"Salt all the doors and windows," He said, handing her a large box of rock salt from inside of the duffel bag. She didn't question it, simple set to work, leaving trails of salt an inch or more thick in front of every door, window and even two lines in the hallway. Meanwhile, Dean began spray painting the windows and floor with symbols Emma didn't want to try and recognise or even consider how she was going to wash them off while Sam rummaged through Emma's belongings in search of what she now knew now to be a hexbag. They had successfully demon-proofed the apartment with just under half an hour to spare.

"Do you wanna meet him?" Emma asked suddenly, appearing beside where Dean was lifting up couch cushion after couch cushion and examining them for any signs of intrusion.

"What – oh, I er," He stuttered. Emma couldn't blame him. Finding out he had a son was likely on par with Emma finding out he was alive in shock factor. It was hardly an easy pill to swallow. "I don't wanna wake him,"

"Two strangers in his living room, I'll be lucky if he sleeps for a week," Emma smiled despite her situation. "He's a curious boy. He won't sleep until he has answers," Dean opened his mouth – no doubt with another excuse at the ready – when Sam cut him off, still elbow deep in a vase, the flowers already evicted and strewn at his feet.

"Go on, Dean," the younger brother urged. "I've got it here," It appeared to be all the prompting Dean needed to nod his agreement at Emma, but she could see his reluctance, could see the way his neck ligaments were twitching as he swallowed the lump in his throat, or how he ran his hands once, twice, three times over his thighs before standing.

"Come on," She gestured towards the left side of the living room where three doors sat beside one another. Two were blank, but the first had a small plaque over the door, a simple wooden beam hung on the door with Henry's name painted across it in blue, a small pirate ship sat at the end. "Ready?" Emma asked, her hand already on the door knob. Dean nodded, an obvious lie. Who could ever be ready for this, to see their son for the first time in such a time of crisis. "Hey, Kid, you still awake?" It was a pointless question. Henry was in bed, but he didn't look ready to go to sleep any time soon. His big eyes were open wide, illuminated by the glow of his spinning nightlight, white-lit stars projecting on the ceiling above them.

"Mommy," The little boy said, tilting his head slightly as he watched Dean too enter his room, shutting the door behind him. It was a small room, Dean noted, far smaller than the one he had taken up residence in the bunker, but it was cosy, with toys and books all sat somewhat neatly on shelves and in boxes, the walls painted blue with hanging pictures of forests and oceans like those from a storybook. It was everything a child's bedroom was supposed to be, he noted, and everything his had been at Henry's age before he lost his mother. "Who that?" He asked, his high voice so soft in the quiet room, all the chaos of the rest of the world having been sileneced when the door closed behind him like an airlock.

"Henry, this is – Well, this is your dad," Emma said, sitting down on the bed beside her son. Dean watched as the confusion crossed the little boys face, how his head tilted ever so slightly like a puppy hearing an unfamiliar sound. And then he looked up at Dean, making his breath catch. "I'm going to wait outside so you can talk, alright," She offered, running her hands across the young boys soft brown hair. "Give you some time to meet properly," Leaning over, Emma planted a soft, lingering kiss on Henry's forehead before finally rising and leaving the room without so much as a word. Dean caught her face as she passed, even beneath the cloak of her light hair. It was a look he knew all to well, like Emma was having to tear out her own heart and walk away without it. He expected that was, indeed, the case.

* * *

Back in her living room, Emma was met first by chaos. Pillows from her couch now lay torn open on the floor, their innards spread across the floor. Books had been pulled form the shelves, left now in a pile by her bookshelf and all of her kitchen cupboards were left hanging open. Clearly whatever it was Sam had been looking for he'd found it and now stood by the stove, a small, brown material pouch in his hands.

"Is that it?" Emma asked, moving to stand beside him, looking over the tiny object in his hand, trying hard not to look at the no doubt curious expression on Sam's face. For something so small and seemingly harmless, it certainly had quite the effect on the tall man.

"Yep, destroy this and it's all over," He said, even going so far as to place the tiny pouch in Emma's hands, closing her thin fingers over the course material. It didn't go amiss that she was holding her - and quite possibly, her son's – life in the palm of her hand. "Unless, of course, any demons decide to show." Still, Emma wasted no time in flicking on the hob nearest to her, hovering the pouch over the blue gas flames and allowing the flames to begin licking up the sides until she felt the heat against her fingers. Dropping it into the empty sink, Emma lent over to watch the offensive object burn away completely - or as completely as it could, the unnerving remnants of what Emma was sure to be bone only charring against the flame. "So, your son. He didn't know about us?"

"I told him his father had died," Emma replied honestly, not looking up at the younger Winchester, the one with the same soft chocolate hair and kind eyes. The relation was obvious and Emma kicked herself for having supressed the recognition for so long. "Minus all the demon crap,"

"What exactly did you tell him?" It was a distraction from the chances of her imprending doom, that was for sure, but it wasn't a welcome one by any means. In fact, Emma would sooner talk to Sam about anything else. But, there was a time for everything and that time was apparently now.

"I told him his father was a true hero. That his whole family was," Emma said, offering Sam a quick, sidelong smile before returning her attention back to the now smouldering mess in her kitchen sink. "I said he was a fire-fighter of all things," She laughed slightly and she didn't miss how Sam joined in, no doubt for his own reasons. "And I told him his father would have done anything to have been able to raise him."

"You're not wrong," Sam said with the kind of scoffing laugh that meant he agreed. There was no reason he wouldn't. Dean would – and in ways, already had – move heaven and hell to protect his family. If he had been willing to give it all up for a boy who hadn't been his son, there was really no telling what he'd be willing to sacrifice for one who was.

"If this – well, if I don't -" Emma began, but Sam, seeing where the conversation was headed, cut her off, placing a gentle hand atop her shoulder. Emma fought the urge not to duck out from beneath it. There were times to be petty, and this certainly wasn't one of them.

"Hey, don't say that. With all of this, the demons can't touch you,"

"Just, hear me out," Emma said, finally managing to step out from under Sam's large hand, gripping slightly onto the side of her kitchen sink as though it could ground her and keep her legs from wobbling. Sam didn't say anything more in argument and Emma took his silence as a cue to continue. "If things don't work. If I die in twenty minutes, Henry should be with his father," Before Sam could object, Emma raised her hand in a swift ' _let-me-finish_ ' gesture, one that Sam accepted. "I know it's not a life for a child and I know - believe me _I know –_ he deserves so much better than this, but, I don't have anyone else to turn to," Her knuckles were turning white as her grip on the sink tightened, her eyes squeezing shut as she forced back the tears that had begun to brew once again. There would be time for tears later. This may well be the last night she saw her son, and Emma Swan had never been very good with goodbyes. "Henry deserves a family. He deserves to be loved,"

"Are you kidding?" Sam asked and for a moment Emma thought he might be about to laugh in her face, to tell her that Dean could barely look after himself, let alone a child. Sam, having clearly sensed the apprehension surrounding Emma, dropped his voice slightly, making it sound both calmer and far wiser all at once. "Dean would never leave that little boy behind," And Emma, despite barely knowing the father of her child, believed his brother when he spoke. There was no lie, no alarm bells, nothing but honesty. But for this moment, honesty wasn't quite enough.

"Promise me," She said, turning around to face Sam, tilting her chin slightly to compensate for the extreme height difference.

"What?" Sam blinked at her.

"Promise me that if I die tonight, you'll look after him," She could see Sam's hesitation, but she didn't stop, instead pressing on. Her future didn't matter anymore, but securing Henry's did. "Or, at least find him somewhere safe, with someone you love and trust. No foster homes, no orphanages. Give my son – _your brother's son –_ the life he deserves." Sam didn't reply immediately, but he smiled slightly. That was all the answer that Emma needed in truth, but the words were the bond, the vow that would fall into place should she not wake up tomorrow.

Noticing how she was still looking at him, Sam nodded, swallowing harshly before he finally spoke, his words burning like a brand in Emma's mind, sealing the deal. "I promise,"

* * *

"Mommy said you were a hero," Henry was the one to break the building silence in the small bedroom, his round eyes peering at Dean through the semi-darkness of the nightlight.

"I don't know about that,"

"She said you were a firefighter," Dean smiled at that, fighting not to laugh at the small boy. When he was young he'd always wanted to be a fire-fighter, but he hadn't remembered telling any of that to Emma. In fact, he didn't remember saying much to Emma aside from the usual ' _stay out of the way and stay safe'_ line. It had been pointless, of course. Emma had run right into danger alongside him, her eyes burning and her jaw set. Even covered in blood and surrounded by severed vampire heads, she had looked strangely beautiful in the flickering halogen bulbs of the warehouse, like some kind of warrior queen. Her blonde hair had been matted with blood, both hers and the monster's and her face was bloody and bruised. And then he told her he was dying. She'd been sympathetic, but not too much. And so the two of them had fallen together in the back of his father's car, him holding her close to his own body while she touched him like he was made of something strong, not the glass others believed him to be. With her he was strong. He didn't have a few months, he had years, lifetimes maybe. With Emma, Dean had felt immortal, like nothing could touch or hurt him. Nothing, that is, but her. And then she was gone, something he had a feeling she excelled at being.

"Mommy said you saved her life," he added innocently and Dean felt the young boy's words squeeze at his tightened chest. Dean wasn't new to children, far from it, he was great with them in fact. But those times had been different. Ben had been eight years old when Dean met and saved him, old enough to understand the difference between good or bad, and Dean had learned outright that he wasn't the boys father. And then, three years later it had all been different again, Ben having grown up enough to both understand that Dean wasn't his father and to accept that he didn't need to be blood to be family. But Henry, Henry was different, he was Dean's son, his flesh and blood. That made him Dean's responsibility – his family. Dean was tired of losing his family.

"Well, yeah, but that was a long time ago," This boy was already looking up to Dean like he was a knight in one of his favourite stories. It both warmed and made his heart ache.

"Then you're a hero," The little boy said with such finality than Dean couldn't find it in himself to argue. "That's what heroes do. They save people." It was so matter-of-fact Dean couldn't help but crack a smile.

"You're one smart kid," He muttered in reply, but Henry was attentive, it seemed, his chubby little face brightening at the praise.

"Are you going to stay?" Henry asked blinking owlishly up at Dean from where he sat up in his bed, his blue checked duvet pooled around his waist.

"I don't know," Dean answered honestly, watching her Henry's head dropped slightly, his tiny shoulder slumping in disappointment. "Do you want me to?" He added and Henry's tiny, toothy smile returned.

"Yeah," He said quickly, his voice high and clear enough for Dean to get the message, but Henry clearly felt the need to nod along as well to make sure the message stuck. This boy barely even knew him and was already enthused by the idea of him being around. It sparked a strange feeling in Dean that began to swirl and pool at the bottom of his stomach. It felt an awful lot like regret. Regret for not finding Emma when he had been saved, regret to have not seen this little boy grow. It wasn't a feeling he very much liked. "Not if you don't want to," the little boy added, taking Dean's silence as indecisiveness. "But I'd like a dad. And Mom's lonely," This piped Dean's interest. He'd barely taken the time to get to know the woman, but she seemed anything but lonely. "She don't say, but I know,"

"You know what, kid?" Dean said with a small, soft smile. "I'm ain't going anywhere yet," And the smile that graced Henry's face made it all worth it – everything from fighting monsters to trying to avert the apocalypse and now, more than ever, Dean knew that they needed those gates shut to keep the demons locked away. To keep the monsters away. He wanted to make a world where his son could be safe, and he'd save as many people as he could along the way – starting with Emma. "So, how's about you get some shut eye, and I'll be here in the morning with a hot cup of cocoa," He assumed, at least, that was what children drank. If not, there was always a time to start.

"With cinnamon?" Henry asked and Dean thought it was a strange request. But then, he wasn't ready to deny this little boy anything.

"Yeah," Dean agreed, his smile widening as he watched the joy on the small child's face. This was what Sam had wanted with Amelia, this is what both of them had been deprived of. Not anymore. Dean had a son and he'd rather spend another forty years locked away in the pit than let this boy go a minute on his own or thinking he wasn't loved.

"Okay," Henry still sounded resistant to go to sleep, no doubt bustling with questions still, but Dean appeared to have convinced him at the very least to try. Before Dean could even stand to go, he felt as a small, surprisingly hard force struck his side, jolting him a tiny bit so he swayed before regaining whatever balance possible on the thin mattress. Looking down, he saw Henry, his tiny, chubby arms wrapping as far around Dean's middle as they could reach, his brown topped head pressed against Dean's heart. It took only a moments hesitation before Dean let his far larger arms come around Henry's shoulders, feeling the tiny, vulnerable body as it breathed against his chest. It was how Dean imagined it felt to hold a bird in his hands, so tiny and fragile, so easily broken by the world. It was something that needed to protecting, and he had every mind to do just that.

"Come on, Buddy," Dean gently pried the small boy away, laying him back against his pillows with ease, even pulling the covers up and under his chin as he had done with Ben before the pre-teen had found out and scolded him. ' _I'm not a kid, Dean'_ he'd said, _I don't need tucking in,_ He'd said it in jest, but the words had smarted all the same. Henry, however, had no such aversions, smiling instead up at Dean like the man had hung the stars in the sky.

"Goodnight, Dad," Henry murmured, his head against his pillows and eyes drooping closed. Clearly the kid was more tired than he let on. Dean, who had already begun heading for the door halted, peering over his shoulder at the small boy, stars dancing around his head and the still softness of his face. He was everything Dean could have ever hoped for, despite being the bombshell that tore down his already crumbling barriers. But perhaps he didn't need them so much anymore.

"Goodnight, Henry," Dean said, before stepping back out into the living room and shutting the door behind him as though he could simply lock out all the evil that was coming their way. It wasn't much, but it would have to do.

* * *

Ten minutes, that's how long Dean had been in talking to Henry, and that was almost how long they had before Crowley sent his regards. Emma was still leant beside Sam by the kitchen sink when Dean finally emerged from Henry's room, the smell of burning quite welcomingly filling her nostrils. She watched with bated breath as Dean grabbed the already open box of salt off of the coffee table, and she continued to watch as he poured a thick line of it in front of her son's door. Henry was safe, she reminded herself, it was her that Crowley was after. Her son would still wake tomorrow with the sunrise, the way he always did and the world would still turn. All that remained was if Emma would be there to bear witness.

"He'll sleep through it now," Emma said, more to herself than anyone else. "That boy could sleep through Hurricane Katrina," She laughed a little at the floor, remembering days she'd had to carry him up form the seat of her bug because he'd fallen asleep on the way home from his 'castle' - otherwise known as the climbing frame at the park – or how he'd somehow managed to sleep through the entirety of Emma's 'Handy-Man-Weekend', complete with drilling and hammering. It wasn't staying asleep that was Henry's problem, it was getting him to sleep.

"Hey, Sam," Dean said, stepping a little more into the kitchen side of the room, making a point not to look at Emma for too long. "Could you, maybe, give us a minute," He said, gesturing vaguely between Emma and himself. Sam, clearly taking the hint, nodded his agreement.

"Sure. Er – I'll just-" He said, pointing towards the door Emma knew to be the bathroom before disappearing behind it. Emma could feel the tension surrounding them both, and the dread that had begun to pool in her stomach did no favours for her already fraying nerves.

"Look," She began, pushing herself off of the counter top to step a little closer to Dean, wrapping her arms around herself, grasping at her own elbows. "I know it's a lot, and I'm not asking you for anything," Dean looked up then, his face as unreadable as the day she'd met him, albeit a little more tired and lined around the eyes. "He's a good kid, I just don't want -" He cut her off, whatever it was he'd been trying to hold back breaking free as he crossed the distance between them in three quick strides, his strong arounds wrapped instantly around her shoulders and pulling her flush against him. She didn't protest (she didn't have the time to) only let herself melt against him as she had all those years ago, feeling as his heart beat out a samba against his ribs like a frantic bird locked in a cage. Not a small bird either, something close to a hawk, or an eagle – and a pissed on at that. Emma imagined her own felt just as thunderous.

"You're gonna make it through this," Dean said, his chin nestled on top of her head, her eyes staring at where the collar of his shirt pulled away slightly to reveal the curling black lines she remembered from their night together.

"I know," she mumbled against his chest, her words quiet enough that Dean wasn't entirely sure he'd heard them. Quiet enough that he wouldn't hear the tremour as the lie slipped past her lips. If he'd heard it, he dind't show it, instead pulling back slightly, casting one look over her face while she blinked up at him dumbly through her sore, no doubt puffy eyes. Emma wasted no time, grasping a hold of the lapels to Dean's jacket, tugging down once until his lips came down to collide with hers.

There was hesitation, but it was brief and quickly swallowed up in the moment. It wasn't gentle. It wasn't romantic or even a little bit sexual. It was nothing short of desperate, Emma's actions having always screamed when her words could only whisper. If this was her last night on her earth, she was going to take something pure and gentle with her, something good. Her breathing was ragged, Dean's hand slipping up her back to rest between her shoulder blades, the other holding firmly to the curve of her hip as they moved against one another. It was messy and loud – screaming, in fact – the words Emma couldn't bing herself to say and the ones Dean was fighting about inside his own mind reverberating through their bones as their nerve endings caught fire. Emma felt like she was holding a live wire, the electricity coursing through her bones and making them rattle and clatter in a symphony of much needed release.

It was an apology and a plead and a promise all at once. _Don't go_ , it said, _Just stay_. She wasn't even sure whose words they were, but they burned behind her eyes all the same as she fought the quiver of her own lip, tears already brewing on the horizon. It was just the jump start Emma needed, the spark that fuelled her fire. Emma wasn't going to go quietly into the night. She was going to fight and she'd be damned if she didn't fight to win.

They broke apart at the shrill cry of Emma's phone, the noise cutting through the mostly dark apartment like shattering glass. A few seconds later and Sam had joined them, casting each of them a knowing, almost gracious look before returning his attention to the ringing phone. The very same rining phone that Dean was reaching for.

"Crowley," Dean said before whoever was on the other end – not that it begged questioning – could speak. "Do your worst,"

"Oh," the accented voice spoke from the other end. Emma couldn't define where it originated, only that it was deep, and gravelly and certainly not local. She also noticed how it set a chill deep her bones, the smugness like nothing she'd heard before. "I intend to,"

"Go ahead, we got enough gear to ice any thing you send our way," Judging by the shared look between herself and Sam, Crowley's silence on the other end wasn't normal, but Dean appeared to be on a war path and far be it for her to interrupt. "We got your little hex bag already so -"

"Both of them?" Emma froze then, her heart stuttering in her chest like an engine on its last leg, her stomach lurching enough to make her gasp. Going by the abject look of horror on Dean's paling face, he was feeling something awfully simliar. "You didn't really think I'd miss a trick, Squirrel," Sam and Dean shared a look and it was anything but comforting, both men with furrowed brows and clenched draws. "One hex bag per-person, that's the deal. Now, who are you gonna save? The Little Hunter That Could, or your Baby Momma?" He was mocking them, this Crowley, and it struck Emma very quickly just what it was she'd fallen into all those years ago. It wasn't just vampires in Albany, it was a real world nightmare, and she'd gone and dragged her son into it. "You have five minutes boys, ciao," then the line went dead and the ice began to form in Emma's bones, immobilising her joints and jabbing painfully.

"Two hex bags?" Sam exclaimed while Dean clutched the phone receiver in his hand until his knuckles turned white. "Why would there be two?"

"You heard him," Dean said, his voice deep but sharp as she clenched his jaw so tightly Emma was amazed his teeth didn't shatter. "One for Emma, one for-"

"Henry," Emma breathed, the tightness in her chest doing anything but lessening at the idea of loosing her son. "He's targeting a child?" She understood already that this Crowley was not someone to be messed with, but to outwardly and unremorsefully attack a defenceless child while he slept in his bed went beyond any monster Emma had heard of.

"Hex bags are personal, they usually contain something that belonged to the victim, a bit of cloth or a piece of jewellery," Sam said, ticking off the facts, holding Emma's rapt attention, at least. Dean, however, had already taken to tearing apart Emma's apartment, tearing open her couch, knocking down vases so they smashed, scattering dust and broken shards across the wooden floor. Having taken in Sam's words, Emma dove for the sink, running her fingers through the burnt mass sat at the bottom of the metal dish. There wasn't much left, some charred bones barely the size of her pinky and a coin she'd never seen before. But there was something, a small patch of red amongst the ashes. Pulling it out, Emma spread the material as wide as should could, trying to decipher a pattern on the barely palm size swatch that lay crisp and still warm at the edges. It wasn't much, but Emma recognised it like she would her own heartbeat.

"Henry's scarf," She wasn't sure how loud she'd spoken, her words felt like nothing more than a breath on her lips, but both brothers had heard her, their heads turning at the relief in her voice. Dean stood across the room by the television, one of Henry' toys in his hand as he prepared to tear it open in search of the hexbag, a familiar look of conflict in his eyes. There was the relief Emma was feeling in her soul because Henry was safe, and then there was dread because Emma was not.

Everything felt very surreal after that, Emma thought, the two boys she'd not seen in half a decade tearing apart her flat while she stood with her hands grasping one small swatch of wool in her hand like it was made of gold, the burnt edges melted and scratchy against her palm. Her whole life Emma had thought she'd be alone, that she'd die the way she had grown – lonely and afraid. Of course, the latter still applied, death by demon spell was rather low on her list of ideal ways to go, afterall, but she wasn't lonely, not quite.

She had her son not ten feet away, sleeping as soundly as he had the day he was born, and she was grateful for the time she'd had with him, that she'd made the right choice and not given him up, letting him grow up safe and loved. And, of course, the Winchesters were there too, far too preoccupied with searching the apartment to even notice as the clock struck twelve once again.

It only took a moment for Emma's life to flash before her eyes, years of foster homes all blurring into one heart wrenching image of a little girl crying herself to sleep – and then there was Neal, the man who broke her heart and ran, leaving her in prison. Then there was her bailbonds years, chasing men and women alike through dank alleys as they tried to outrun their fate, not that Emma could judge too harshly, she'd been running all of her life. It was time to stop that now.

A lurch, that was all she felt, nothing too painful at first, just a quick, sharp tug at her heart that told her it had begun – that the end was nigh. It wasn't so bad, she thought, almost like a cramp in her chest. Bearable at least. Until it spread like wildfire, scorching through her veins like a burning fuse. Emma's knee's buckled first, bent by the weight of the agony weighing down upon her. If there truly was a God and he did decided to rain down his wath, Emma imagined this is precicesly what it would like. There was blood, a lot of blood, thick and glistening as it pooled before her like a splattered puddle, her reflection distorted in the shiny surface but no less visible. It was only as Emma spluttered, her body crunching and bucking once more from the force of it that she realised it was coming from her, spewing out of her mouth like a fountain that just refused to stop. Was that the plan? For Emma to bleed out like an animal in an abattoir? Or was she going to drown first, the blood filling her lungs until she simply slipped away. Of all the ways to die, drowning had always seemed the more preferable. To simply feel as her mind shut down, letting the pain end as the darkness took her. But that wasn't what was happening, the pain didn't stop and Emma's didn't slip away. She cursed and she fought hard not to scream as she buckled entirely, her body hitting the ground, her face smearing against the puddle of blood. The slick liquid felt like acid against her cheek.

Emma's vision was blurring, her entire being shifting tectonically as he felt – or she thought she felt – arms coming around her shoulders, the persons fingers felt like brands against her skin as they flipped her not onto her back, but on her side. The blood was still pouring and spluttering from between her lips, more than Emma was sure her body could hold but the thought was banished as her insides began to twist and tear like someone had released a very scared, very pissed off tiger to lay waste to her flesh and organs. Whatever this was, it was tearing her apart from the inside out.

There were voices, soft and panicked all at once, one fighting to soothe while the other barked like a terrified dog. It was distorting, the whole world spinning around her. The fountains had mostly ceased, slowing to a dribble as the river began to run dry. The pain though, had not, leaving Emma with nothing to do but lie and wait in agony, her body to worn to ever cough the blood from her mouth.

She wasn't a fool, she knew this was the end, but of all the ways she'd imagined dying, in the arms of a hunter couldn't have been furthest from her mind. And yet, there was something oddly perfect about it, to leave this world in the arms of an almost-stranger, the agony so overbearing that the fear ebbed away into nothingness, leaving only the promise of sweet relief in its wake. Emma stared forward, unmoving, her eyes capturing the image before her blurred and misty as it was. And then it began to blacken at the edges, like someone had taken a flame to the corner of her mind, and slowly Emma allowed herself to be swallowed by the fire until she saw no more.

* * *

The phone was ringing again, but Dean didn't move to answer it, not when he had the weight of Emma's body across his lap, her green eyes open but blank, like the dead, soulless eyes of a porcelain doll. He could feel Sam standing behind him, his presence doing little to soothe the rage already to swirl in his gut. If he'd been dubious about slamming shut the gates of Hell before, he certainly wasn't now. In fact, shutting that particular dimensional door was the second thing on his current to-do list, trumped only by his current need to end Crowley as slowly and as painfully as he could. Two people, two people that both the brothers had cared for had died in agony in the arms of almost-strangers. Crowely's death would be far worse. Dean was sure of that.

"Crowley," Dean heard Sam as he answered the phone no doubt to silence the obnoxious and shrill ring it was leaving in the air. It had already rung twice, the brothers leaving it to ring in the empty silence, the weight of death too heavy in their for either of them to move. But enough was enough.

"Sam, darling," Dean heard the smug bastard's reply, and even that was enough to snap Dean out of his daze. Laying Emma's body back down as quickly and gently as he could, her head lolling so her bloody cheek faced the sky, Dean jumped to stand. Swiping the phone from Sam's hand before Crowley or even Sam could utter a word, Dean spoke.

"You listen to me you smug bastard,"

"Ah, Squirrel, lovely to hear from you," He was certainly living up to Dean's insult that was for sure. "How's parenthood treating you?"

"You listen -" Dean growled, but Crowley cut him off as easily as if he'd snapped his fingers.

"No, you listen. I warned you what would happen if you didn't let these trials now. You've got under twelve hours until the next one snuffs it," He didn't sound smug now, but angry Despite his obvious pleasure at torturing the brothers, he was growing restless and frustrated. If they didn't do something, Dean knew it was only a matter of time before Crowely struck harder, closer to home. Closer to their breaking point. Not that Dean was far from his – infact, he was dangerously close, so close that the next words out of his mouth fell with ease into the blood tainted air.

"Call it off."

"And why would do that?" Crowely asked and Dean was sre he could _hear_ as the bastard sat back in his throne. A king in his castle. Dean was ready to burn that castle to the ground.

"Because it's over, you son of a bitch," He replied, his voice stronger than he felt, his hands still trembling as he clutched his hand into a white-knuckled fist.

"Dean, what are -" Sam interrupted, but Dean continued as though he'd not spoken, his grip on Emma's phone far from relinquishing.

"We want to deal," He spoke, followed by silence. Crowely was hesitating, and not because he was thinking it over, but because he was torturing Dean just that little bit more – twisting the knife as it were. Without Croewly's voice in his ear to fuel his rage, Dean was left with the emptiness he'd felt as Emma lay dead in his arms, her face so young and terrified as the life left her body. She had died afraid, and Dean would never forgive himself for bringer her into his life. Her's was just another soul strapped to his back fo him to carry with him through life, another face to haunt his dreams. But she had left something behind, someting Dean needed to tend to. She had left Dean with a child.

"I'm listening," Crowely finally said, his voice inquisitive, but no less smug.

"We stop the trials, and you stop the killing." Dean could see as Sam tried to argue, but one look shot him right down. Now wasn't the time. Their was enough blood on their hands alread. Dean wasn't about to let their be anymore, even if he had to rid the world of demons the old fashioned way.

"I want the Demon Tablet – The _whole_ Demon Tablet,"

"Fine, but then the Angel Tablet comes to us." Dean bargained.

"On what grounds?" Crowely objected, but Dean stood his ground firmly.

"On the grounds that you're a douchebag and no douche bag should have that much power," Sam was watching Dean acutely, his eyes narrowed as though trying to suss if his brother had some plan to this or if he truly was surrendering to Crowley, a thought that made his stomach knot uncomfortably. Not even Dean knew the answer, but he'd be thrilled if Sam managed to find one. "Deal or not?"

"First, I need to hear two little words -" Crowley paused, no doubt fo dramatic effect, but all Dean could realy focus on was the moon as it shone dully through Emma's kitchen, only partly visible between two particularly tall skyscrapers. Dean had once told Sam to be afraid of the dark and all the monsters that dwell within it, but now, watching as the moon shone silver over Emma's face, making it look almost translucent and the stars winked their condolences, he was beginning to think that'd gotten it the wrong way around. They should be fearing the light, because it's the light that shows the carnage the monsters leave behind. Light reveals all. Dean knew how to fight the darkness, how to survive within it as he had his whole life, but to live in the light with the knowledge of what he'd done, to see the blood as it dribbled down his fingertips and how he'd hurt others - that took more strength than Dean believed he had.

"I surrender," Dean said before he let the phone line go dead.

"Dean, what the hell?" Sam demanded as Dean dropped the phone with a clatter onto the kitchen counter.

"What?"

"A surrender? Really? After all that crap you said when Sarah died?" He was pissed off and Dean far from blamed him. Honestly, surrendering had been the last thing Dean had wanted to do, especially after the damage Crowley had done. He wanted nothing more than to lock the bastard away for good. But things were differnt now. The sky was illuminating and Dean could see the wreck before him with clarity. He needed a way to defeat Crowley while also keeping Sam alive and Henry safe, and the best way to do that, it seemed, was to give Crowley exactly what he wanted.

"Just trust me, alright," Dean reasoned, watching as the tension far from settled within Sam's shoulders. As more days past, the more exhausted and worn Sam was beginning to look, the brunt force of the trails really beginning to take their toll. The circles beneath his eyes were darker than Dean's own and his body was sagging noticeably beneath the weight of an invisible world. Shutting the gates of hell was no small task, Dean knew, but to see his brother so bowed beneath the weight of it was just another twist to the perpetual knife lodged forever in his gut. "I've got a plan." Sam looked sceptical, and Dean, once again, didn't blame him, but it was clear the other brother knew that now was not the time for arguments. They'd both lost so much in the past twenty-four hours, and now it was time to clean up the blood and the mess.

"So, what do we do now?" Sam asked, looking to his older brother for guidance the way he once had. Looking after his dumb little brother, that was the first weight placed on Dean's shoulders, ever since his father had passed Sammy into Dean's young arms. He'd been no older than Henry at the time, Dean noted, when he bore the weight of his mothers death and his brothers wellbeing. Now Henry would have his own cross to bear. The thought alone made Dean's strong stomach lurch, the contents of it more than willing to make a reappearance.

"Now we need to get this place cleaned up and get Henry out of here,"

"Dean, are you sure? I mean we're going up against Crowley, and we already know he's got no problem attacking the kid," Sam reasoned, but Dean was past arguing. Henry was his responsibility, from now until the day he died, and day Dean was beginning to see peeking along the horizon. It was something to fear, but something he was nearly ready to welcome. He's had a long life, he figured, and he'd lost so much. He deserved the peace that lay beyond that horizon. But not yet.

"We can't leave him here and Emma didn't have any family. The kids my responsibility."

"I say we get the Demon Tablet from Kevin and send them both to the bunker. It's warded against any evil, remember. They'll be safe." SAm, once again, the voice of reason. Kevin wasn't doing so great himself nowadays, but Dean doubted Henry would be handful, and they wouldn't be gone long. Not if Dean had his way.

"Alright," Dean agreed before opening the cupboard beneath the sink and bringing out a bucket and passing it over to Sam. "Best get cleaning before the kid wakes up. I'll, you know, deal with the body, " Sam nodded his agreement, accepting the bucket from his brother without a word. They needed this, Dean needed this. It wasn't much, but it was a chance to say goodbye properly before they left for good.

* * *

Dean soon found there were not words to explain to Henry what had transpired that night or how to let him know his mother was gone and most importantly, that she wasn't coming back. The familiar pain Dean saw in his son's eyes was enough to crack his otherwise unwavering façade. It reminded him agonisingly of the night his own mother had died, how he'd sat beside his father in the back of the ambulance, baby Sam nestled and sleeping in his arms as the firefighter had explained there were no survivors. Dean had figured as much out for himself of course. He was young, but not stupid. He had seen the fire and the horror in his father's eyes, he had held his crying brother in the street while his father stared with abandon at the house in flames. Young as he may have been, he had known in his heart and understood his mother wasn't coming back.

That was where it had all begun for Dean, the fighting and the hunting, the constant need to make his father proud. Henry wasn't going to grow up like that, Dean decided, his son was going to have a real life. Henry was going to go to school like a regular snot nosed kid, and he could learn about the creatures that went bump in the night as soon as he was old enough, but he would never be a hunter, Dean would make sure of that.

"You'll look after him," Dean said to Kevin as they stood beneath the billboard of Dave and Paul's Chilli Pot Restaurant, the Demon Tablet heavy in his pocket as the incredibly stretched out looking young man looked back at him with haggard eyes. He looked as tired as Dean felt.

"Of course," Kevin agreed, offering Dean a reassuring smile. Henry, to his credit, had fallen asleep as soon as they'd hit the road in the impala, his entire life already packed up in the back seat. Now he sat in the backseat of Kevin's car, his oh-so precious storybook open in his lap while he waited to leave once more into uncertainty.

"Lay low, you'll be a mathlete again before you know it," Dean assured, hoping beyond any reasonable doubt that what he was saying would be true. "I'll only be a minute," He nodded at Sam before crossing the short distance towards Kevin's car. Henry barely looked up when Dean opened the car door beside him, his tiny little hands holding onto the storybook like an anchor. "Hey Kid," He said, crouching down beside him.

"Hey Daddy," He said, his bright eyes still red from either sleep or tears, Dean wasn't sure. He looked nothing like the boy Dean had met the night before when he'd been innocent and ignorant to the dark, a small bundle of happiness and joy. It had barely been twenty-four hours and Dean had already lost his bubbly ittle boy before he'd known him. All that was left was to try his best to get that boy back and pray he wasn't gone for good.

"Me and your uncle Sam have to go away for a little bit," Dean said as tenderly as he could, looking over Henry's clearly joyless face. He'd just lost his mother, and Dean understood better than anyone just what kind of hole that left I a young heart. He just didn't know if he was going to be enough to fill it.

"Like Mommy did?"

"No kid, not like that. We'll only be gone a few days," He assured, but Henry didn't look al that convinced. "This is Kevin," He introduced and Henry looked briefly at the other man before looking back at his father with a look that broke Dean's already fragile heart. "He's gonna take you home – to my home - and he's going to show you your room and everything. Just until I can get back."

"You are coming back?" Henry said, his voice so tiny Dean wasn't entirely sure he'd heard him properly, but the sadness in the small boy's was all he needed to be sure.

"Yeah, Buddy, I'm coming back," Dean assured as Henry pivoted slightly in his seat, shutting his book and letting it slip down between his legs and the back of the drivers seat.

"Promise?" He asked, now facing Dean entirely. Despite being on his knee's, Dean still towered over Henry where he sat in the car.

"I promise," Before Dean could say anything else, perhaps something to put the boys mind at ease or maybe just another assurance that he would be back, he felt the impact that came from Henry all but jumping out of the car, his little arms wrapping around Dean's neck as his legs wrapped around the man's middle. Taken slightly aback, Dean stood up, but Henry's grip was like iron, the small boy clinging on like a terrified baby monkey would as Dean reached his full height.

"I will miss you," Henry said, his voice muffled as he spoke into Dean's neck, but still he heard it as clear as a bell, his own arms coming around to hug the small boy back.

"Me too, Buddy," Dean replied, holding the boy close, but delicately like he was made of glass. "I'll be back though," he said, giving the boy a quick kiss before retracting his grip and settling him once more into his child's seat, even elaning over the strap him in properly. "I always will." Henry didn't reply, but he did nod his acknowledgement, tears already tracking down his round cheeks. Dean couldn't help but grieve along side the boy, even if he'd not known Emma, he had felt her loss and he still did. A loss that could easily have been avoided. "You watch him," Dean said, pointing to Kevin.

"Got it," Kevin agreed, climbing into the divers seat of his car and buckling himself in. Dean watched as he pulled away, HEnry's eyes holding his gaze out of the rear window for as long as he could before they were out of sight. Within moments, Dean was staring at empty road, his son already on his way to the bunker, on his way home. Dean could only hope that his promise to him was sincere, that he indeed, was not going away the same way Emma had.

"So," Sam said, sidling up beside his brother. He wasn't silent, Dean noted, far from it in fact, his footfalls heavy on the grass and his breathing loud by Dean's side. "What's the plan?"

"We get Crowely," Dean said, casting one more look at the road before turning to face his brother, now something of a broken, worn edition of the man Dean had come home to. All he could hope now was that he brought that man back again, the same as he would hope to bring back the joyful little boy he'd met the previous night. "That's the plan." He said. Sam seemed to take it in stride, nodding once at Dean before turning and heading towards where the Impala was parked on the roadside. Before he followed, Dean reached inside the pocket of his jacket, his fingers rubbing against the tell-tale edges of a photograph. It wasn't particularly remarkable, just Emma and a young Henry barely three years old by the looks of it, at the park, both smiling up at the camera and bathed in the summer sunshine. It was all Dean had really snagged from Emma's apartment, folding the photo into his pocket after deciding that he wanted to remember what she had looked like, to make sure Henry never forgot his mother the same way he hadn't forgotten his.

Sat inside the fold was a necklace, something Dean had remembered Emma wearing when they met, how it had dangles from her throat that night in the backseat, trailing like an icy cold touch down his chest as she had hovered above him, her eyes aglow in the darkness. It was just a keychain, no bigger than his thumbnail with a swan sat in the middle of the circle hanging from a long, thin silver chain. Dean had recovered it from the hexbag he'd found beneath a floorboard in Emma's kitchen, one he'd only noticed to be loose when he saw how her blood had begun to trickle between the gaps.

"We get the bastard," He said to himself, pulling the pendant over his neck in one quick motion before tucking it beneath his shirt to sit alongside the amulet Sam had gifted him before making his was to the impala.

Dean climbed into the driver's seat beside Sam without a word, pulling the door shut behind him before waking the engine of his baby with a roar. Neither brother said anything as Dean pulled out onto the road, following the tarmac in the opposite direction of home, letting the Chilli restaurant billboard fall away into the distance. Home may have been far, but with the cool metal against his chest he was blissfully reminded of what awaited him there, or the life he'd always wanted. They may not be able to defeat Crowley, and they may not be able to shut the gates of hell, but if Dean knew one thing, it as that he was going to make it back to that home. No matter the cost.

 

**Author's Note:**

> I promise I will get back around to updating my other stories, I promise.
> 
> I'm pretty sure this story it a total mess, but it as begging to be written an since nothing else seemed to be working.
> 
> Let me know what you think! I've got another Swanchester one-shot in the works and I still have my multi-chapter if you're looking for more.


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